


The Eumenides

by Theonenamedafterahat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: .......not that they don't talk to each other in the show, Eleanor Guthrie Lives, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but like. now they get to talk Even More, in which people actually get to TALK to each other, potential future Max/Anne/Eleanor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-03-17 02:27:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18956041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/pseuds/Theonenamedafterahat
Summary: Even as a little girl, Eleanor had known that eventually a monster called England would come and take away everything she had and everything she loved. And that there was nowhere that monster would not seek to sate its endless appetite.For a long time, she had thought it could be appeased — by money, by labour, by who the fuck knows what. There was always something left to give. But now… what more could the terror of her girlhood ask her to sacrifice?If she had died today, then all of it would have been for nothing. All the battles she fought, all the enemies she defeated — every effort she made to play the role of the demure, submissive English wife over the past few months, even as it felt like a slow, agonising death.If all of that was for nothing, then fuck it. Fuck them.If England cannot be escaped and cannot be appeased, perhaps Flint is right.AKA my version of a 4x06 fix it fic





	1. Chapter 1

Given where she began, Max knows that it’s practically a miracle that she knows how to ride a horse, and not something she should take for granted. But as she grits her teeth to keep from cursing, she can’t help but wish that she knew how to ride a horse without rattling every damn bone in her body.

It’s hot, her hands hurt, and her spine feels as though each bone is being squeezed. Nassau might be a small island, but it’s more than large enough to make finding one person almost impossibly difficult, and in the face of such odds, it’s foolish to be focusing on mere discomfort.

But if Max has proved anything today, it’s that she’s hardly immune to the occasional foolish impulse.

The saddle is likely to be the cause of her current misery. She’d realised before leaving the fort that it was too large for her — not unexpectedly, given that the supplies in the stables were provided for the soldiers. There hadn’t been the time to return to the tavern to retrieve her own. Even if she had attempted it, and made it through the disorganised ranks of the pirates laying nominal siege to the fort, the building had been ransacked during Flint’s attack on the town. Everything she left there would have been taken, or destroyed. And so she made do with this ill-fitting saddle, which she currently hates almost as much as she hates the Spanish soldiers in those ships, and the English governor who brought them to this place.

 _Woodes Rogers._ She had known that man wasn’t to be trusted. Worked with, yes — while there were no other options available to them — but never trusted. There was an element of cruelty in his eyes that Eleanor never saw. If his actions lead to her being…

Hurt. Killed. The thought makes Max’s heart beat faster. If it became reality, it might just make her heart stop.

It’s been a long time since she saw this part of the island in the light of day. Strange how so much has changed, and yet the sun, the sand, the sea stretching to the horizon… it all looks the same.

This fucking island. How is it that so many care so much for this spit of land, so similar to every other in the Caribbean?

Come sunset, it might well be in the hands of another empire. Given the promises that the governor made and, as yet, has failed to deliver, the commander of the Spanish forces might well decide to take the island in payment. The harbour is large enough to be of some use to the Spanish empire, and there’s a no shortage of timber or fresh water on the island.

Then again, he might just decide to burn it all.

All this Woodes Rogers is willing to risk, it would seem. The lives of every man, woman, and child on this island. The sacrifices made by so many to build something here.

 _And Eleanor,_ Max thinks. _Though he might not know it yet._

And speaking of Eleanor…

It’s been a long time since she left with Flint and half a dozen soldiers to make the exchange. What if she’s already completed the deal? What if she is on her way back to the fort right now, unaware of the invasion? If that is the case, then should Max take the coastal path — the most direct route to the southern beach — then she might well end up missing Eleanor altogether. Eleanor has more sense than to bring that cache through Nassau, filled with pirates as she doubtless believes it to be. She wouldn’t take the direct route into town. She would take it through one of the tunnels, and into the fort.

And she wouldn’t be alone. _Flint_ would be with her — and whichever of his men Silver had decided to send to meet them. That had been Eleanor’s plan, had it not? To bring Flint back to the fort with her, along with the cache, to ensure that his promise of safe passage out of the fort would be honoured?

And what would Flint do, Max can’t help but ask herself, when faced with a Spanish invasion of the island that he just traded a fortune for?

It’s a thought that sits between her shoulder blades where the pain is congregating, and she carries it with her like an unwelcome ballast all the way across the island and into the settlement that used to contain a small puritan community.

Its former residents had all either moved to Nassau once it became clear that the British forces could not maintain control outside of the town, or were killed by the pirate resistance. In unfortunate cases, both.

It’s the barricades build around one particular house that first draw her gaze, similar to those that were built throughout the town before the invasion. Max has become unfortunately accustomed to the sight.

She dismounts cautiously, and approaches on foot. A moment later, she wishes that she hadn’t.

Corpses litter the ground. A handful of dead Spanish infantrymen just beyond the limits of the property, and a British soldier lying by the steps, unmistakable in his red coat. Another man lies a few feet away from the house — one of Flint’s men? One of his maroon allies? There’s no way of knowing, but it only solidifies Max’s conviction. Eleanor had been here.

A crash from within the house — a scream that makes Max’s heart leap up in her throat.

Eleanor is here, right now, and she’s in danger from whoever killed her man, and Flint’s man, and Max has to do _something_.

She needs a weapon of some kind, and she casts about desperately but nothing suitable appears.

There are many pistols on the ground that she presumes were spent in the initial attack, but Max has neither the time nor the skill required to reload one. A few have swords, but when she seizes one her suspicions are confirmed — it’s both too long and too heavy for her to have any hope of wielding it successfully.

Another crash from within the house, and Max finds her decision made for her. A poorly chosen weapon is better than none at all.

She doesn’t stop to think — just runs forward, hoping like hell that the door isn’t locked, and it isn’t because it flies open when she throws herself against it —

Max can’t see Eleanor, or Flint — only a Spanish soldier, tall and bloody and murderous, and standing over someone.

She thinks of Anne standing up against men twice her size with only her two knives. She thinks of Eleanor beating Hammund off of her, shrieking like a banshee.

Max knows that she doesn’t have Anne’s skill in a fight. She doesn’t have Eleanor’s confidence with weapons. But right now, Max thinks as she tightens her grip on the sword it’s taking both her hands to hold, she understands the kind of fury that they must have felt in those moments.

_“Get the fuck away from her!”_

The soldier’s face goes from confused to enraged, and he’s got just enough time to take a step forward before Eleanor Guthrie comes hurtling in from the left.

Eleanor, it seems, fights dirty — unschooled, desperate, and vicious — she slams the soldier sideways into the hard corner of a heavy wooden table in a frenzy of blonde curls and green skirts, yelling.

Max thinks, _she’s terrified_. She thinks, _she’s furious_. She thinks, _I have to help her_.

No time to strategise — Max reaches into the melee, trying to pull the dagger out of the soldier’s belt.

This is nothing like the fights she would see on the beach between pirates sometimes. It’s uglier, less coordinated: the advantage she and Eleanor have over the soldier in terms of numbers offset by his training, strength, weight, height — in essence, every advantage a man may have over a woman he seeks to subjugate, to dominate. To put in her place.

And that desire could not be more clear on the face of this man. Max can see it clearly in his features. His confusion over being denied the victory that he considers his by right. Confusion that has turned to rage, _to hate_.

This man, Max knows in her heart, hates them. In this moment, nothing would please him more than to kill them both. But first, he would make it hurt.

To lose this fight would be worse than to die in the process.

It’s too long — seconds stretching like molasses into hours — before Max wrestles the dagger away from him, and then there’s no time to think.

The soldier shoves past Eleanor and seizes Max by the neck, and she doesn’t know how but suddenly they’ve overbalanced, and they are falling, all three of them.

The sound of the soldier’s head hitting the flagstones is sickening — a soft and wet thud. His grip slackens immediately.

Still, Max can’t quite manage to breathe until she’s certain that he isn’t anymore.

That’s also the point at which she realises that Eleanor is speaking.

“Max? Max, are you hurt?”

 _My whole body aches,_ Max thinks. She says, “I’m fine.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to find you,” Max says, the words tumbling out of her, and now all she can think of is the look their eyes, all of them — Mr Fraser, Mr Soames — all those men who would have let Eleanor _die_ here. “I had to.”

For some reason, it’s important that Eleanor understands that. “I _had_ to.”

It’s just that. There was no larger plan at work here, no deeper motivation — she came because she had no other choice.

“Oh,” Eleanor says. And then again, “ _Oh_ —” as her face crumples, her composure fracturing, and before Max realises what’s happening Eleanor has dragged her in close.

She’s clinging too tightly, Max knows, but it’s alright because Eleanor is too. It’s desperate and graceless, less akin to an embrace and more to a shipwrecked sailor, rescued from the water and clinging to whoever pulled him free.

Once Eleanor starts to cry Max can’t hold back her own tears.

“Thank you,” Eleanor says, in between shuddering exhales. _“Thank you.”_

Max can feel Eleanor’s cheek pressed against her temple. She fists her hands in that poor, ruined green dress, and tries to control herself. If she hadn’t made it here in time… if she had turned down the path towards the rendezvous beach on the south coast....

She feels achingly young, exhausted and wordless. Eleanor feels terrifyingly small in her arms, but her skin is warm. There’s blood drying on her skin, but her breath is evening out, quietening.

And then Eleanor stiffens, pulls away, and wild-eyed and pale says, _“Madi.”_

 _Madi_ turns out to be a woman — a girl, unconscious on the floor nearby, bleeding from a head-wound but still breathing. Eleanor drops to her knees beside Madi.

“Her people fight with Captain Flint,” Eleanor explains, hands shaking as she brushes Madi’s hair away from her face with a tenderness that seems entirely out of place. “She was a part of the group that was to escort us across the island to make the exchange.”

There are so many questions that need to be asked, Max can hardly decide with which to begin — is this all that this girl, Madi, is to Eleanor? She clearly cannot be nothing more than an ally of Flint’s, if Eleanor cares so much for her. Yet Max does not know her — doesn’t recognise her face, her name — so how can she and Eleanor have met before?

And then Eleanor says, “Her father was Mr Scott,” and Max chokes on her breath.

Eleanor’s next words come out in a rush, as though saying them quicker will lessen the pain. “I was told that she and her mother were killed in the Rosario Raid, and I — ”

She reaches to take Madi’s hand before continuing.

“I grieved for them as much as I did for my own mother.”

“I understand,” Max says quietly, because she does. Of course she does. Despite the gulf of years between them — despite the war that Madi and her allies have declared against Eleanor and her husband — Eleanor obviously cared about her very deeply once. Max knows how the events of the Rosario Raid still haunt Eleanor, that the losses she suffered have influenced her decisions from that day to this.

To be given the chance to regain someone you thought had been lost, and then to see it slip from your grasp —

Max’s heart aches for her.

“You’ll need water, to bathe her wound,” Max says. “And something to stop the bleeding.”

She stands, casts her eyes around for something she can use for bandages — there is a collection of what looks like unwashed linens in a pile by the wall, and she vaguely remembers seeing a well when she arrived at this place. Her thoughts occupied with such mundane matters, she starts when Eleanor breaks the silence between them by saying, “Max?”

Max looks back to see Eleanor, deathly pale, and still on her knees next to Madi, still holding her hand.

“It was him, wasn’t it. My husband. He brought the Spanish here.”

It isn’t a question.

Max opens her mouth, but what is left for her to say? The first five phrases that came to mind are all in some way inadequate — too revealing, most of them.

Eleanor worked it out herself, then. From the look on her face, she’s only just accepting it as the truth.

 _I’m sorry,_ Max wants to say. _You don’t deserve this. Had I known what he was planning to do, I would have made those soldiers fire on his ship before he ever left this place, again and again, until it lay wrecked at the bottom of the bay._

Instead, she remains silent. She nods. And after she’s brought the linens and the water, she and Eleanor set about making Madi as comfortable as they can and tending her wound, and Max does not comment on Eleanor’s still-shaking hands.

 

\----------

 

When Madi first wakes up, it takes her a moment to convince herself that she’s probably not dead. Given the pain that’s currently stabbing through her skull, she thinks that she can be forgiven for momentarily doubting, and with that, she begins to gather the energy to open her eyes.

It’s hard, and the effort exhausts her, leaves her staring at the blur of dark spots in front of her for what feels like hours before she blinks and sees —

Madi doesn’t know who she sees. The woman beside her, regarding Madi with a keen expression and holding blood-stained rags in her hands, is unfamiliar. Yet from the looks of things, she has been tending to Madi’s wounds.

“It’s alright,” the woman says, in a tone that’s probably supposed to be calming, but is undercut by the sharp, assessing look in her eyes. “You’re alright.”

Whoever she is, she’s a beautiful woman, and it would appear not one to be cowed. There’s a streak of blood on her cheek that Madi thinks she must not have noticed, since her appearance is otherwise almost immaculate.

She can’t be a pirate, dressed as she is — nor an escaped slave from one of the plantations on the island. She can’t be one of Billy’s spies within Nassau, or else Madi would have seen her at some point during the days they all spent trying to untangle the mess that was Nassau in the aftermath of their victory.

But then, there are other people on this island. And of those people — the _governor’s_ people — Madi can think of only one name that might fit the woman before her.

“My name is Max.”

“Yes,” Madi says, “I know who you are.”

Brothel madam is the least of the labels this woman has earned. The most important member of the governor’s council, according to Flint and Rackham. The woman Eleanor had deemed worth exchanging twenty prisoners in return for. Even Madi’s father had mentioned Max once or twice in his reports, had written of how she had stepped into the role left vacant after Captain Hornigold had handed Eleanor over to the British. He had admired her.

In sort, this is a woman who probably shoulders the blame for Governor Rogers’ regime lasting on Nassau as long as it did. Madi wouldn’t be surprised if Max isn’t also largely responsible for the defeat of their invasion. Why then, is she here, tending to Madi’s wounds? From the way Max is looking at her, she knows who Madi is. Eleanor must have told her, if she has not worked it out for herself.

 _Eleanor was here_ — the shock of memory hits Madi, leaves her near breathless.

Zaki and the British soldier guarding them must both have been killed for the Spanish soldier to enter the house, but Eleanor was fighting. She was hurt. Where is she now?

“Eleanor, is she —?”

Max shakes her head. “She is unharmed. She is resting.”

“You told her that her husband was the one to bring the Spanish here?”

That earns Madi a frown. “How did you know that?” Max asks.

Madi shrugs. “Who else could have helped them avoid the obstructions in the harbour? Flint tried to tell her, but she would not listen.”

At the time, Madi had thought for a moment that Flint would argue his point and force Eleanor out of her denial. She had been confused when he backed off, even more so when Eleanor had her soldier free Flint from his manacles. It’s clear that they were close, once. Close enough that Eleanor still trusts him — trusts him enough to free him, arm him, and allow him to command her men.

When she first came to Nassau, Madi had thought that Eleanor was one of them. Now, she is not so sure. And if that is the case — if Eleanor’s faith in the British empire and in her husband, is failing — what could that mean?

Madi knows herself well enough to know that there is no point in denying the truth of her feelings. If Eleanor were to join them, they could build something together — something better than they had as children.

Beside her, Max is setting aside the rags she must have been using to tend to the wound Madi can feel on her forehead. When Max stands, her body blocks some of the light, casting her face in shadow. Madi can’t meet her eyes, but she still accepts Max’s hand to help her up.

“Thank you,” she says. “For helping me.”

Madi always tries to give credit where it is due, and she makes no exception now: for Max to be here, she must be incredibly brave. She must have come from Nassau, must have left the safety of the fort and travelled all this way alone. That’s impressive. And more than that, there is something about her, something more profound than the colour of her skin, that reminds Madi of her mother — a strength entirely distinct from bravery, and far less common.

Max must have fought to get here. From the blood on her cheek, and the lingering tension visible beneath her seemingly-calm exterior, she must have fought hard. For that, if nothing else, Madi admires her.

Max doesn’t bother to hide her surprise. “I didn’t come here for you.”

“I know that,” Madi shrugs. “Yet if it were not for your actions, I would likely be dead.”

Max’s cheeks dimple under the pressure of a slight smile, which Madi returns, before Max turns and leaves the room without looking back. Madi presumes she has gone to see Eleanor, leaving Madi to her privacy.

It doesn’t take her long to find the corpse of the Spanish soldier, lying crumpled on the flagstones on the other side of the room.

Madi feels very little when she looks down at him. This is the man who tried to kill her and Eleanor — the man who killed Zaki — Madi can still remember the murderous intent in his eyes when he approached her. And yet… he did not choose to come to this place. Madi feels no guilt over his death, and if she had been able, she would have killed him herself, but she doesn’t _hate_ him. He did not do this.

If he had killed her, or Eleanor, then there would be many different people who others sought to blame. Flint, John, Madi herself — but the man who is truly to blame would remain Woodes Rogers.

He was the one who brought the Spanish to Nassau. He was the one who put Eleanor’s life at risk, and it seems that Eleanor now accepts that. The blood of every person who dies today will be on the hands of Woodes Rogers.

After that, Madi can’t stay in that room, alone with the corpse. She takes it by the feet, and drags it outside, then stands for a moment in the sun.

It’s still very quiet. There are people fighting for their lives all over this island, yet if it were not for the corpses gently rotting in the sun, there would be no sign of it here.

Madi finds Zaki lying face-down in the dirt, just beside the stairs up to the porch. He must have died quickly, Madi thinks, otherwise he would have given them some warning.

That should be a comfort, but it isn’t. She can’t look away from the body lying prone in front of her, where Zaki isn’t anymore.

Before the day is done, Madi knows he will not be the last man she loses. Hundreds of her men might be dead already, and she can do nothing to help them, even in death.

Their dead will have no funerals. Even if some survive, their retreat from Nassau will hardly be the kind that allows them to bring the dead home. Zaki and all the rest will have to be left here, with no funeral pyres, no sacrificial offerings, no gifts from their families to accompany the dead on their journey.

_You always knew some would die._

What will their families think? What will her mother think? That she failed them all?

No. _No._

They had all known this might be where the path they had chosen to walk would lead. They will grieve for their dead, tend to their wounded. They will remember the generations of men, women and children who have been forced to walk down paths far more treacherous, who were given no choice in the matter.

Their fight is not over. Six ships Teach brought when he joined their battle, in addition to the _Walrus_. Of those six, only four joined their invasion. There are two more waiting for them back at home. To those two they will add the _Walrus_ , the ship that was left in the harbour that Kofi took to retrieve the cache — the _Gloucestershire_ — and the ship Captain Rackham captured from the governor. Five ships to fight a war, and a treasure to fund it.

Yes, they have lost men. But they have also gained men — from Billy’s resistance group, from the Underhill plantation, perhaps even from Julius’ army. Their home is intact, strong, while Nassau has been burned, it’s people butchered.

Madi can think of worse situations that they could be in. She is certain that Flint will agree.

Others, she is somewhat less certain about.

The look on John’s face as he asked her whether he would be enough for her still haunts her.

Why would he ask her that question?

He is afraid, that much is obvious. Madi wishes she knew what he was afraid of. Whatever it is, he’s been unsettled for days, since before Madi told him what she had seen on the Underhill estate.

It isn’t easy, bending down to turn Zaki’s body over, for reasons beyond the physical (ache in her head, in her torn knuckles, in her arms from the exertion) — the Spanish soldier had cut his throat, butchered him like an animal. When she sees it, Madi can’t help herself — she staggers a few steps away and vomits once, twice. Only once her stomach has stopped heaving does she straighten up, wipe her face with her shirt sleeve, and return to the body.

He deserves better than she can give him. They all do. But that does not mean that what she has to offer is meaningless.

The bracelet Madi wears was sent to the island by her father, years ago, and Madi hasn’t removed it since. It isn’t much as burial offerings go, but it’s the best that she can do for him.

She tucks the bracelet in Zaki’s hand, and tries not to cry.

 

\----------

 

The dress is ruined. If Eleanor is honest with herself, it’s been growing more and more unsalvageable for days now, but the damage that was done to it during her fight with the Spaniard was the final straw.

It will have to be discarded. Fortunately, there are piles of clothing in the bedroom Eleanor has retreated to. Shirts, trousers, even a decent pair of boots that should fit her, provided she wears two pairs of stockings.

Mrs Hudson would be horrified at the sight.

She would not be the only one.

Eleanor undresses carefully. The upper layers come off with relative ease, but she can’t keep from wincing as she unlaces the corset. The motion pulls on muscles she didn’t know she had which are connected to an ache in her ribs that she’s all too aware of, that she desperately hopes is nothing more than a bruised rib or two.

She isn’t bleeding, at least. That lessens the likelihood that the Spaniard caused her to miscarry. She’ll be able to examine the damage once she gets out of this fucking corset.

Max would probably help her, if she asked. But then...

But _then,_ indeed.

The swell of her belly isn’t prominent, but it _is_ evident, for one who knows how to look. For someone as familiar with Eleanor’s body as Max once was, it’s unmissable.

She will tell Max, but only after she’s sure that there is nothing amiss.

Finally, after a considerable amount of struggle and some truly undignified grunts of pain, Eleanor frees herself from the corset. She lets it fall to the floor, and stands in her shift for a moment, fingers curling at the hem.

She’s never had broken ribs before, but she knows what to look for.

Since pulling her shift over her head won’t be an option, and it’s not like she’s planning on wearing it in the future, Eleanor simply cuts it off.

The bruise is dark, ugly, and covers a large portion of her upper left side. But, as Eleanor gently examines it with her fingertips, she can’t find any signs of broken ribs, or any deeper injury.

The relief is enough to weaken her knees.

The pale shirt she slips into is infinitely kinder to her injury than the corset had been, and the trousers are stained but serviceable, and won’t hamper her in a fight as her skirt had.

Eleanor braids her hair quickly and neatly, and secures it with a strip torn from her ruined shift.

It’s much more practical. She’d never been fond of wearing her hair so loose as she has since her return to Nassau, but two days after he’d had her removed from Newgate prison, Eleanor had noticed the way that the new governor of New Providence Island had looked at her loose hair. She’s recognised the look in his eyes, and resolved to do what she could to encourage it.

As time went by, she began to encourage that look for other reasons.

And look where that had brought her.

_Fuck._

It’s not that the pain is indescribable — if there’s anything the English language excels in, it’s words to describe pain. The problem is, all those words don’t much help, when one is feeling it. Pain has a way of making everything else unimportant. And so all one can say is ‘it hurts’. An inadequate term, certainly, but in these moments, it’s all there is.

It hurts _so much._

It’s the kind of hurt that leaves you empty, wretched. There’s a familiar, heavy sensation behind her eyes that Eleanor knows will turn to tears if she isn’t careful.

Crying is a luxury she can’t afford right now. The worst kind of self-indulgence.

People are dying out there. _Her_ people, her _fucking_ island. She’d only survived because of Max.

That Spaniard would have destroyed her, and her child, just as his men were in the process of destroying Nassau, and Flint...

Flint had been right when he accused her husband of being in league with them.

The governor had brought the Spanish to Nassau, Max said. He had allowed them entry to the harbour, ordered the fort not to oppose their landing. He was responsible for all the destruction, rape, and murder, he had fucking _orchestrated_ it, and tears may be an unaffordable luxury but right now, Eleanor doesn’t have the strength to keep them from falling.

Her throat hurts now. She’s not breathing particularly well. Each time she remembers what has happened, what is still happening, an awful, hurt noise comes from her mouth.

That fucking noise. Like a wounded child, a beaten dog.

Her husband. Her _husband_ did this to her. A man who claimed to love her, to trust her... he did this. _How_ could he do this?

She’s heartbroken. She’s furious. She’s very, very tired, and none of this makes sense. It will never make sense. But it’s undeniable now, and Eleanor needs to figure out what to do about it.

Staying with him is out of the question, which also means that she won’t be able to stay on the island. Her grandfather might be an option, but first she’d have to find a ship and a crew willing to take her there, and in truth it’s not an option that appeals to her. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t know his family. Without her husband to sweeten the offer of a partnership, she doubts he will be willing to listen to her. If she turned up on Joseph Guthrie’s doorstep, pregnant and without her husband, he would probably turn her away. And even if he didn’t… how could she live the life that he would expect from her? It’s been difficult enough to contort herself into the role these past few months. She once described it as a mutilation and that is still the most appropriate word she can think of to describe it.

She couldn’t do it again.

There’s a knock on her door then, a soft double-rap, and Eleanor quickly wipes her face with her hands and croaks, “Yes?”

Max enters swiftly, closing the door behind her, and if Max thinks that is necessary then it can only mean one thing.

“She’s awake?”

Max nods. “She asked after you. I believe she was concerned for your welfare.”

“Did you tell her that Flint was right about my husband?”

It’s irrational for her to resent Flint for that, Eleanor knows. But surely, after the day she’s had, complete rationality is a bit much to expect from her.

By the time Flint returns, she will be practical again. But for now, she will permit herself to feel as she wishes. Denying it would only make it worse, like a wound left to fester and turn putrid.

“She knew already,” Max replies.

“Then she is a wiser woman than me,” Eleanor says quietly. “I should have seen it.” How many warning signs had she missed? How could he have blinded her to his true nature so completely?

The man she fell in love with could never have done this. Therefore it must follow that either the man she loved never existed, or that he has been so changed by this war that the man she kissed goodbye all those weeks ago is no longer the man she married.

Max is still there though. Still looking at her like one of them is about to burst into tears at any moment, and Max isn’t sure which.

“Did you?” The question explodes out of her.

“I had no idea he would do something like this.”

“But you didn’t trust him either. Not as I did.”

Max sighs at that, and sits beside her on the bed. For a moment, Eleanor allows herself to imagine what it would be like to reach across and take Max’s hand. What it would be like to live a life where Max would still allow that.

“I can only imagine,” Max says, “That a man shows his wife a version of himself that is unlike the one he shows the rest of the world, and that it would…” Eleanor can’t tell whether she’s lost for words, or just trying to soften the blow of words already found.

“...Cloud her judgement,” Max finishes, not unkindly.

For a moment, Eleanor is furious over it — how dare Max absolve her so easily? But her anger dissolves as fast as it had arrived, leaves her hollowed out and heavy, and keenly aware of the final secret left hidden beneath her tongue.

“I’m with child, Max,” she says, voice gone small. “His child.”

Max is kind, feels compassion in a way that rarely survives in a place like Nassau, and it‘s evident in her reaction to Eleanor’s news — the slack surprise of her mouth, the way her eyes round, the tremor of her breath, inhale and exhale both gone shallow.

She cares, though she has no reason to, given all the harm Eleanor has caused her.

She’s afraid, though Eleanor’s safety should be a distant, secondary concern to her, when compared to her own.

“Does he know?” Max asks.

“Not yet. But Mrs Hudson does, and after today… I doubt she will be able to keep the secret for long.”

Eleanor pauses. Fists her fingers in the bedsheet and watches Max watch her in the soft light.

“She wanted to tell him,” Eleanor continues, “but I forbade it. I didn’t want him to find out about it in that way… now I wonder if that was a mistake. If he might not have done what he has if I had let her tell him.”

 _I am sorry,_ she doesn’t say. _I am so sorry this happened to you. So sorry that I did not prevent it._

Eleanor has failed to protect this woman so many times. She should be used to this feeling by now, but she isn't. The guilt still takes her breath away. 

“How far gone are you?”

Max’s voice is different now — there’s a particular urgency to it that Eleanor has never heard before.

“Around three months, why?”

“Once we leave this place, I can help you,” Max says immediately. “I can find people to help you. We can take care of this — “

“I don’t want to take care of it!” Eleanor retorts without hesitation or forethought.

“Why not?”

It’s a fair question. A rational question. Max must have encountered women in similar situations dozens of times. In truth, Eleanor can’t blame her for suggesting the most pragmatic solution, no matter how the thought hurts.

It makes her wish that Woodes Rogers had never visited her in Newgate, that she hadn't returned to Nassau, that she’d kept her distance no matter how he smiled at her, that she'd never kissed him at all. It’s too late for regrets now, but if she were making decisions based on rational pragmatism right now, she would not be considering keeping the child.

By every objective measure, it’s a mistake that could be fatal.

But god damn it, it is her mistake to make. Her body, her child, her fucking life and she wants this enough to kill for it. Enough to die for it.

“Because this child is as much mine as it is his. I won’t —“ her voice cracks. “I won’t let him take another thing I love from me.”

“Very well,” Max says, and Eleanor remembers how Max had clung to her earlier, how Max’s tears had felt on her skin, how her voice had trembled as she said _I had to_. She thinks that Max must understand.

“You have made mistakes here,” Max continues. “And each time you did, I told you. So believe me now: this? What is happening today? It is not your fault. He believes that he is protecting you. If anything, learning of your current condition would have only made him more convinced that his current course of action was justified.”

Just another goddamn man — the latest in a long line of men who claim to trust her, to respect her, and yet demonstrate over and over that when it comes down to it, they feel entitled to make her decisions for her. And then they tell her that it was done from love, as though that constitutes an improvement of the situation. As though removing the knife they plunged in her back is likely to do anything other than let her bleed out.

Mr Scott. Charles. Her father. Her husband.

“He’s just like the rest of them,” she says quietly.

“Have you given any thought to what comes next?” Max asks. “Flint will be returning soon, with the rest of the men. Could they take us back to the fort?”

Eleanor shakes her head, frowning. “It’s too far for such a large group on foot. And even if it were possible, I have no desire to return to Nassau.”

“What alternative do we have?”

What was it that Flint had said, before everything changed, when he first brought news of the Urca to her door?

England cannot be outrun.

She’d known that he was right, then. Deep inside her, she had known it.

Even as a little girl, Eleanor had known that eventually a monster called England would come and take away everything she had and everything she loved. And that there was nowhere that monster would not seek to sate its endless appetite.

For a long time, she had thought it could be appeased — by money, by labour, by who the fuck knows what. There was always something left to give. But now… what more could the terror of her girlhood ask her to sacrifice?

If she had died today, then all of it would have been for nothing. All the battles she fought, all the enemies she defeated — every effort she made to play the role of the demure, submissive English wife over the past few months, even as it felt like a slow, agonising death.

If all of that was for nothing, then fuck it. Fuck them.

If England cannot be escaped and cannot be appeased, perhaps Flint is right.

“Flint. We go with him. His men won’t have left him and Madi behind.”

Eleanor has seen the expression on Max’s face before, a lifetime ago. It’s as painful now as it was then.

“You mean to join him?”

Fuck propriety. Fuck all the rules she’s been following since she returned to Nassau, in the hopes that strict adherence would afford her some kind of reward. Eleanor takes Max’s hand, grips it tightly.

“Come with me,” she sounds desperate. She doesn’t much care — it’s the truth. “I need you.”

“Please,” Max whispers. “Do not do this…”

“I can’t do this without you, Max.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Max first met Eleanor, first went to Eleanor’s bed, she hadn’t been expecting to fall in love. If she had, she probably wouldn’t have done it. But she hadn’t known. When Noonan, unpleasant as ever and near terrified of what Eleanor’s decision to take over the running of her father’s business in Nassau might mean for the brothel’s profits, had ordered her to stay with Eleanor for the night, Max had no objections. 

She hadn’t been alone, anyway. Idelle, Isabella, Charlotte and Alice had all joined her — the kind of welcome usually only given to new members of the largest and most profitable crews. But that night, and every night following, it had been Max who had captured Eleanor’s attention. 

She hadn’t been trying to, but it happened nonetheless. Looking back, Max can easily see why she had once believed that Eleanor returned her love.

She should have known back then Eleanor was going to break her heart. 

It takes a moment for Max to find the words. Eleanor is still holding her hand and it makes it hard to concentrate. 

“I urge you not to make this decision right now,” Max says eventually. “You have been betrayed, humiliated; you are angry. And you have every right to that anger, but —“

“— it clouds my judgement?” Eleanor finishes with a quirk of her eyebrow, disbelieving. 

“Right now, you are vulnerable,” Max insists.

Eleanor scoffs, clearly unmoved by that argument, so Max changes tack. 

“Within months you will have a  _ child _ . Do you seriously believe there will be any place for a child in Flint’s war?” 

Eleanor retorts, “I’m told there are many families living with his Maroon allies.” 

“And many pirates besides,” Max says, steely, in an attempt to keep her fear from leaking into her tone. “They’ll kill you!” 

But Eleanor just narrows her eyes, and snaps, “Teach is gone!” 

“But Jack is still alive!” Max takes Eleanor’s other hand quickly, squeezing them both tightly in an effort to convey the seriousness of the situation. “Do you imagine he does not seek his own vengeance for Captain Vane’s death? That he is not aware of your part in his execution?” 

The thought of it makes her weak, makes her glad she’s already sitting down. Max has seen pirates do terrible things to their captives, has experienced them herself. What might happen if Eleanor went among them? 

“Flint can handle Captain Rackham,” Eleanor insists, which throws Max for a moment. 

“You believe he would do that for you?” 

The look on Eleanor face isn’t triumphant, she’s likely still too shaken for that, but it is certain. 

“Yes I do,” she says. 

It’s Max’s turn to scoff now. She jerks her hands away from Eleanor’s, about to stand, but Eleanor’s next words stop her. 

“I did everything that was asked of me,” Eleanor says. “Accepted every sacrifice, abided by every rule, and I still lost everything. I can’t do it again. I  _ won’t _ . Flint is offering me a chance to be free of all of it.” 

It’s funny, Max thinks, but Eleanor looks more like herself now than she has since she returned to Nassau with Governor Rogers. There’s a light in her eyes that Max recognises from long ago, a strength to her voice. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that she is asking Max to join her in an effort that has no chance of success, not least of all because of all people,  _ Flint _ is the one that Eleanor is choosing to rest all her hopes on. 

“How can you trust that man?” Max asks. 

It’s a genuine question, and Eleanor seems to realise that, because she takes a moment to think about her answer. Max watches as Eleanor’s hands come together to meet in her lap.

“He and I worked together for many years,” Eleanor says, finally, not meeting Max’s eyes. “I’ve seen him triumphant, despondent, enraged… he is not the man that most believe him to be.” 

The smile that crosses Eleanor’s face as she looks back up is as unexpected as it is small, brief and barely there, and her next words are full of conviction. “He trusts me.” 

Max’s disbelief must show on her face, because Eleanor sighs, then puts her hand on her side to soothe what Max assumes must be injured ribs, given how she was walking earlier.  

She says, “There’s nothing else for us to do, Max. It’s not safe on this island.” 

Max leaves quietly. There’s nothing more to be said right now. 

Madi must have removed the body of the Spanish soldier from the house; Max looks out of the window to see her sitting near the corpse of one of her fellow maroons, her back to the house. 

Perhaps she is grieving. Best to leave her to it, Max decides, and takes a seat at the large table. 

This situation is far from ideal, but Max doesn’t know what to do about that. Eleanor wasn’t wrong when she said that there was nothing left for them to do right now, and she wasn’t wrong when she said that it wasn’t safe for them on the island. By now, every inch of land on New Providence Island will be swarming with Spanish soldiers like flies over a rotting carcass. Soon enough they will track them down again, and alone she and Eleanor have no hope of either fighting their way to safety, or defending their current position. 

Leaving Nassau with the pirates might be their only option, Max admits reluctantly. If Flint will vouch for their safety, that would at least get them off the island. And Madi seems to have some connection to Eleanor — they both showed concern for each other — so that would be another voice they would have arguing in their favour. Max had seen the  _ Walrus _ leaving the harbour shortly before she left, and if she isn’t wrong then Mr Featherstone and Idelle will likely be on it. Recent reports had told them that Silver and a large proportion of the pirate army were at the Underhill plantation, and Max can’t believe that Featherstone would leave without those men. 

All in all, it’s not impossible that Eleanor will be able to leave Nassau with the pirates. And yet… 

_ Jack is still alive, _ Max had said earlier. It’s probably true, since neither Jack nor Anne were captured during the invasion. 

While she was held prisoner by Billy’s men, Max had spent the whole time half expecting to see one of them, and half dreading it. She couldn’t believe then that Jack at least would have kept from visiting her, and she can’t believe it now. So where are they? 

Madi probably knows. Max could ask her, right now. 

Then again, now might not be the best time, given all she has to deal with. The issues that currently face her will require her full concentration.

It is, perhaps, cowardly of her to avoid asking the question for fear of hearing bad news, but there is no one here to judge her. 

If she were to ask, Max doesn’t think she could conceal her reaction. Madi does not seem like the kind of woman who would miss such an obvious sign of weakness, and whether she decided to exploit it or not, Max does not know her nearly well enough to take that risk.

She doesn’t even know who Madi  _ is _ . 

Mr Scott was her father, Eleanor said. The information they had gathered from captured prisoners was that he had been a king of sorts in the isolated maroon colony. Has his authority now transferred to his young daughter? 

She could probably find out, if she would just  _ ask _ .

There’s a book on the table, red and leather-bound, and Max reaches for it in an attempt to distract herself from the many questions she should be asking.

She turns it over in her hands to read the spine, which says  _ Marcus Aurelius _ in gold lettering, and beneath that in slightly smaller letters,  _ Meditations _ . 

Max doesn’t recognise the title or the author, but it’s better than nothing. 

She opens it gently, but pauses at the inscription. 

_James_ — she knows that is Captain Flint’s given name, which would seem to suggest that the book belongs to him. That makes sense, since he was the one to lead Eleanor here in the first place. The whole of Nassau had known that he kept a woman in a house somewhere in the interior. But the message is from a _T.H.,_ when Flint’s woman was called Barlow. 

A gift from a former lover, perhaps? Whoever gave this book to Flint, she was clearly important to him at the time.

_ He is not the man most believe him to be.  _ If this book is Flint’s, then that would seem to support Eleanor’s statement. 

_ My truest love.  _ What happened to the author of those words? The pages of the book are yellow with age, and the ink is old and faded. Flint must have kept it for a long time. 

If nothing else, Max can sympathise with the pain of losing someone that you love. 

The sound of the door opening startles her, and she shuts the book quickly, shoving it away just in time for Madi to enter the room. 

_ Ask her, _ Max tells herself.  _ Ask the questions. _

She does not, and silently berates herself for it as Madi heads for the bottle on the sideboard, pours some water into a mug, then sits across from her. 

“Do you think they will find us here?” 

Odd. Max hadn’t expected for Madi to be the one asking questions.

“Anything is possible,” Max says. “The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to be discovered.” 

Madi nods in acknowledgement, or agreement, Max doesn’t know her well enough to know which. Then Madi asks, “Where will you go?”

Max frowns. “What does it matter to you?”

“Once Flint returns, we will need to leave this place. You and Eleanor are welcome to come with us.”

For Madi to feel comfortable making such an offer, she must be relatively certain that it will be honoured. It must therefore follow that she has the power to ensure that her wishes are obeyed, at least by her people. Possibly by the pirates as well. 

It is possible that Flint’s maroon allies are commanded by a woman, no older than Eleanor or Max? 

Her attitude speaks of authority, but without doubt. Max has seldom seen anything like it. Even at the height of her power, Eleanor acknowledged that her authority had limits, and was never completely certain of where those limits were to be found. 

More to the point, if Madi commands her people, then she must have made the decision to join Flint’s war, and to call his people allies. 

She must believe that they have a chance. She must trust Flint, to some degree — to fight in their war, at least. Max can understand why she might. After Charlestown is was obvious that Flint would make no more compromises with England, even Max could see that. 

But does Madi know that the pirate king, the figurehead of their revolution, might not be so reliable in this matter? 

“Do you trust him?” 

“Flint?”

Max shakes her head. “Long John Silver.” 

  
  


\----- 

  
  


The inside of Eleanor’s mouth is arid and her throat hurts as Max walks away, so Eleanor doesn’t ask her to stay. There is nothing more to be said. If Max still won’t come with her… 

Honestly, if Max won’t come with her then Eleanor doesn’t know what she will do. But then, she doesn’t know what Max will do either. She will have to come with them, at least for now, so they can get away from the island. Eleanor doubts there will be any place for Max in Nassau anymore, not once the council tell her husband how Max aided her in arranging to exchange their surrender for the cache. 

Her husband.

Eleanor has to swallow hard. Alright, then, message received; best not to think of him that way, until she can do so without weeping. For now, Eleanor can only bear to think of him as the governor. Governor Rogers. That, and nothing more. 

God, was this how Max felt when Eleanor had betrayed her? 

It’s unbearable. 

Eleanor stands and begins to pace, casting her eyes around the room, desperate for a distraction. 

Eleanor had chosen to retreat here because it was the farthest away from the main living space. It must have been Mrs Hamilton’s room, when she lived here. Flint’s too, Eleanor supposes, on the rare occasion that he came to visit. It seems like the pirate resistance has been using it mainly for storage. Large sheets cover piles against the walls; Eleanor takes the corner of one, pulls it aside only to find a pile of boxes. From the sound the topmost one makes when Eleanor nudges it gently, that box at least is full of bottles. 

Rum and pirates. A familiar combination, if not a particularly pleasant one. It still makes Eleanor grin as she opens the box and appropriates one of the bottles for herself. In the next box she finds several rounds of shot, and puts it aside on the bed. Flint will be interested in any useful supplies they can find in this place. He’ll probably want to go through this room himself. 

She returns to the pile of boxes, bottle in hand, only to notice something odd and unexpected behind the pile — a painting. 

More precisely, the frame of a painting. Eleanor has to shift a few more boxes as she does so, her curiosity proving to be more of an incentive than the pain is a disincentive. Finally, she reveals the painting itself — Mrs Hamilton, and a man, both finely dressed. A glance at the bottom of the painting reveals his identity. 

_ Mr and Mrs Thomas Hamilton.  _

Eleanor kneels down in front of the painting, slightly stunned.  

Of course, she had heard about the tragic fate of Lord Thomas Hamilton, eldest son of the Lord proprietor of the Bahama islands. By the time of Thomas’ death, her father had been bribing the Earl for years, and Eleanor hadn’t questioned what she was told at the time. 

Once Flint had told her that his  _ long-time companion  _ was in reality Thomas Hamilton’s wife, Eleanor still had not thought much of it. She had never known the man — what did she care that Flint had run away with his wife?

Governor Rogers had explained to her that his own plan to offer the pirates of Nassau a universal pardon, in exchange for their allegiance and their labor, was based upon a plan that had been put to Whitehall ten years earlier by Lord Peter Ashe. That plan, Rogers had said, was written by Lord Thomas Hamilton. 

Even ten years later it seemed, Flint had been willing to risk his own life for Thomas Hamilton’s plan. 

Rogers had told that rumour among certain of the less scrupulous Lords Proprietor was that Thomas Hamilton hadn’t been mad with grief at all; that he was imprisoned to keep him from pursuing in his attempts to get a universal pardon for the pirates of Nassau. 

This new information changed things — for Eleanor, it raised more questions than it answered, and threw into doubt answers she had thought were plain. 

And now in Flint’s house, Eleanor finds Lord Hamilton’s portrait, and new questions. 

Why would they have kept it? She could understand Mrs Hamilton wanting to keep a token of her past life, but one including the man she threw over for Flint seems strange, even stranger for Flint to have kept the portrait after Mrs Hamilton’s death.

Slowly, Eleanor reaches out to touch the stiff peaks of the oil paint making up the features on Thomas Hamilton’s coat. 

_ Who are you? What are you doing here?  _

Flint is as much a mystery to her as he has ever been. 

He must have seen something in Charlestown that changed things for him — something that made him turn against the pardons that he had fought for a decade to obtain for Nassau. But that’s just another question. When Flint returns, Eleanor will need to get some real answers from him. For once, she thinks she might actually get them. 

It’s with this thought in mind that she hears the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and closing, then voices. Too quiet for Eleanor to make out their words, but familiar nonetheless. 

She goes to join them, but hesitates just out of view of the table where Madi and Max are sat, once she can actually hear what they are saying. 

“Do you trust him?”

Max sounds exhausted, and her tone makes Eleanor’s heart sink. If anything, she sounds even less convinced about Flint’s trustworthiness than she did before. 

“Flint?”

“ _ Long _ John Silver.” 

Oh. Well, that’s a different matter altogether. 

“You shouldn’t,” Eleanor says, giving up on eavesdropping and coming into view of Max and Madi, and it isn’t until she registers the look of surprise on Max’s face that Eleanor realises with how much venom she had spoken.

“Mr Silver,” Eleanor continues, “is not a man to be trusted.” 

“Excuse me?” Madi is frowning.

She probably trusts him, Eleanor realises. Flint seems to now, so Eleanor doubts that he will have made Madi and her people aware of Mr Silver’s recent behaviour. 

If Eleanor is to join them, then she will have to. If for no other reason than to make sure that she isn’t joining a doomed enterprise. 

“He’s a coward,” Eleanor finds herself spitting the words out. “And a liar, and were he the last man on Earth I would not rely on him for anything. After what he’s done, I don’t know how Flint can.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Where to begin? How to explain that every move Silver has made so far has confirmed her first assessment of him? Eleanor can still remember how it felt to swallow her rage at his response to her asking him to help Max. 

Max, who is sat right in front of Eleanor, and looking almost as confused as Madi.

Dear God. Of course she looks confused. She doesn’t know that Eleanor had anything to do with the death of Vane’s crew, of Hammund and all the rest. Eleanor had ensured that none would suspect that she had any part in it, had she not? 

Max doesn’t know what Eleanor did for her. And now is not the time to tell her; not with Madi still looking expectant, almost angry. 

“Some time ago,” Eleanor begins carefully. “I asked him to help me rescue a compatriot of his from something awful. A danger he had been instrumental in bringing to their door. He refused. He laughed at the suggestion.” 

Madi’s eyes flutter, and her flinch is probably not as subtle as she’d like it to be, but she controls herself, and her voice is steady when she asks, “What?” 

It’s important, Eleanor tells herself, not to look at Max in this moment. Instead she looks down, lips twisting in to a smile completely devoid of any happiness, and says, “I believe he said,  _ fuck, no. _ ” 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Shock makes Madi clench her fists. She’s never been slapped in her life, but she imagines this feels something like it. 

“When was this?” 

She watches as Eleanor glances at Max, who is holding herself very still.

“Shortly after his arrival on the island,” Eleanor replies eventually, and Madi can’t control the sigh of relief that escapes her. Eleanor has only seen John once since he was named quartermaster, and then only for a few minutes, in a tense situation. 

The man Madi fell in love with would never leave an ally in the kind of situation that Eleanor described. That he once did is shocking, yes, but if he were put to the same choice now, Madi cannot believe he would react in the same way. 

Max interrupts Madi’s contemplation, saying, “It would not be the first time Silver has crossed Flint over that money.” 

Madi’s renewed confusion must show on her face, because Eleanor frowns and asks, “Did your father ever tell you about the  _ Urca de Lima?”  _

“Very little,” Madi replies. It’s far too warm to blame the weather for the shiver that runs down her spine.  

Eleanor sighs, then pulls up a chair for herself before she starts speaking again, this time with her arms folded on the table. 

“Flint was the first to hear of it,” she begins. “He had a man in a tavern in Port Royal who relayed a story he had heard a man named Vasquez telling a merchant captain. Flint then spent months tracking down that merchant captain, risking his captaincy in the process. And when he finally took the merchant captain’s ship, it was only to find that the page containing the  _ Urca _ ’s schedule had been torn from the merchant captain’s log. Mr Silver had taken it. This, after Flint offered him a place on his crew, and a life of freedom and prosperity.”

Eleanor pauses, and looks across at Max again before continuing. 

“He then tried to sell the page that fucking schedule was on to another crew. Flint caught him before the deal could go through, but Silver had already burned the page, after having memorised the schedule. He leveraged this information to keep his place on the  _ Walrus _ . Said he would write down the first part of the schedule, then give up the remaining piece at a later time. That he would forgo payment for the schedule in exchange for a share of the prize.” 

Madi bites the inside of her cheek and looks away. This information is not  _ pleasant  _ to hear by any means, but neither is it damning. It was a long time ago, as she said. Of course John had no loyalty to Flint and his crew at that time. She would rather have heard it from him, true, but it doesn’t necessarily indicate that he plans to betray Flint, betray  _ her _ , again. 

Yet it seems that Eleanor is not yet done with this story. “Unfortunately,” she says, “the  _ Urca  _ was wrecked near Division Bay, and Flint and his crew came across a Man-O’-War that was sent by the Spanish to retrieve the gold, which they fought and eventually captured. They were forced to return to Nassau in that ship in order to refit and hire a new consort.” 

Max nods, then says, “There were... complications, once they arrived. Silver began to lose what little faith he had previously had in Flint. He managed to deceive Flint, his crew, and the rest of the island, convinced them that the  _ Urca  _ gold had already been retrieved by the Spanish. Then he came to me, and offered to give up the location of the treasure, so that Jack could retrieve it himself.” 

A second betrayal. Madi has a feeling that if she hadn’t already emptied her stomach, she would be sick again. 

“Why would he do that?” Madi asks slowly, trying the words out, finding them wanting.

“For a larger share of the prize,” Max shrugs. “Flint’s crew at the time was five times larger than Jack’s.”

“That was a long time ago,” she says. “Much has changed since then.  _ He _ has changed. Being chosen as quartermaster gave him a responsibility to the crew that he feels keenly. He cares for his men. And he cares for me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Eleanor says. “But it’s been my experience that men like Mr Silver always think they know best, and when they betray you, they tell themselves that it is an act of love.” 

“John Silver and the governor are nothing alike,” Madi retorts, angry now. “You cannot claim to know his mind better than I do when you have barely spoken to him in the past year!” 

“No,” Eleanor says. “But when I offered Flint Nassau in exchange for the cache, I saw the look on Mr Silver’s face. He was angry, though not with me. If you had seen the way he looked at Flint in that moment… there is discord between them. I tried to warn Flint about Silver, but he said that he was not concerned.” 

The creeping unease that assaulted Madi earlier comes back in full force, because though she might want to, she cannot deny what Eleanor is saying.

_ If Flint’s war ended and we had to walk away from it, would I be enough for you? _

Why would he ask her that? Why would he call it  _ Flint’s  _ war; as though she and her mother and their people had played no part in seeking it? 

He could not believe that, surely? 

“I do not recognise the man you are describing,” she murmurs. A lie. The man that they describe is exactly the kind of man that Madi believed all the pirates to be when they first met; the kind of man she believed that Flint was until fairly recently. How strange, that he is the one man she is now certain of. 

“Ask Flint, ask Anne Bonny,” Eleanor urges. “They will confirm everything I’ve said is the truth.” 

Unnecessary. The expression on Eleanor’s face moments ago was sufficient to indicate that her account is true. And even if it weren’t… it’s not whether it’s true or not that matters, is it? What John has done in the past doesn’t matter much, beyond providing context to his actions. It’s his words to her, his questions, that are causing her to doubt. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Madi asks instead. 

Eleanor takes a moment before she answers. When she speaks, it’s with a studied evenness that belies the gravity of the situation. “Because you have a right to know,” she says, not unkindly. “I don’t trust John Silver, and I never will. But I want to join you and Flint when you leave this place, and so I want to be certain that you are both aware that John Silver is unreliable, and untrustworthy.” 

When Madi opens her mouth, the words disappear and all that comes out is a shock of breath that slips away, wordless

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Eleanor is sitting cross-legged on the floor, quietly sorting through boxes in the bedroom when Max finally retreats from Madi’s silence.

“Am I disturbing you?” She asks, when Eleanor doesn’t turn to her at the sound of the door opening.  

“Not at all,” Eleanor responds too lightly, still looking away.  

“What are you looking for?”  

Eleanor shrugs. “There are supplies here that could prove useful. Weapons, ammunition…” She finally turns to face Max, and admits, “I’m trying to keep busy.”  

Just as Max had suspected, then. It’s a good sign that Eleanor is willing to admit it to herself. She closes the distance between them and goes to her knees next to Eleanor, who smiles briefly at her, before returning to the boxes. From somewhere Eleanor has managed to procure a small pencil and a scrap of paper, and for a moment it feels like Max has somehow returned to a previous time, watching Eleanor make lists and ledgers and cataloging goods. She had always been good with numbers, and Max had always delighted in watching her. 

She could have been an incredible asset to the governor, if only she had been allowed to make use of her talents. When they had been preparing for the siege, Eleanor had been excluded from the council’s preparations, and Max had seen how much it shook her. While Max didn’t doubt that Eleanor was giving her husband suggestions in private, it had still seemed wrong somehow to see Eleanor so compliant. 

“Can I help?” Max asks.  

Eleanor pauses, then sets down her pencil and shifts until she’s fully facing Max. There’s a bottle next to her that Max hadn’t noticed, but Eleanor takes a fortifying drink from it before saying, “That’s not why you’re here.” 

She shouldn’t be drinking rum right now. Not with the danger that grows ever more dire with every moment they spend on this island, and not in the emotional state she is in. It’s too great a risk to take, especially since they are entirely without protection. 

Max frowns, plucks the bottle out of Eleanor’s hands and sets it aside. “No,” she admits.  

“Then ask me the question you came to ask,” Eleanor says.  

The problem is, Max _doesn’t_ want to ask. But neither can she live without knowing for certain whether she is right about what she suspects Eleanor was talking about earlier when she said — when she said — 

“You said,” Max starts, “that you asked Silver to help you save someone.” And now for the important question, the one that’s been haunting her since Eleanor first spoke against John Silver, despite her having no reason to have such disdain for him that Max was aware of — “Were you talking about me?”  

It’s the only explanation Max has come up with that has made any sense, given the relatively short span of time in which Eleanor and Silver were both on the island and the lack of other candidates who could fit the criteria Eleanor had laid out. Max still doesn’t understand it, but she wants to.  

No, want is not a strong enough word to describe how Max feels. There is no alternative — she _must_ understand it.  

“Yes,” Eleanor says, and the word sounds like it falls from her.  

There isn’t much Max could say to that. Certainly nothing comes to mind right now. She is wordless, breathless, staring at Eleanor because she doesn’t know what else to do. There’s a voice in her head that protests _but you said_ **_no_** _, you said_ **_not you_** _, I told you_ **_I love you_ ** _and you said_ **_no_** _…_  

Her heart is fragile in her chest, the slightest word could break her, the slightest movement. 

“Anne came to me after I lifted the ban,” Eleanor goes on, and she’s searching Max’s face now, her own expression sad and small, “that very night, asking for my help.” 

Max is hurt. She shouldn’t be hurting. How is this causing her pain? “Why would she come to you?” She asks, with what little air is left in her lungs.

“The men had already seen her challenging Hammund,” Eleanor says, her face twisting into a frown at the man’s name, showing her teeth. “She knew if she dealt with him herself, the rest of Vane’s crew would come after her, so she asked me to do it.”  

This time she doesn’t need to ask Eleanor to elaborate; it seems as though the words are spilling from her without the need for more questions.  

“I told her it was foolish, that it would only make the situation worse for everyone involved. And then I proposed an alternative plan, one in which there would be no one left to seek revenge. Not on her, not on me, and most certainly not on you.”  

“What did you do?” Max asks, surprised she is able to get the words out, surprised that the tears threatening to fall haven’t yet, surprised by everything and nothing and wanting desperately to understand what happened that night.  

“We had Silver convince them that half of the pearls Rackham lost in the wrecks were given to you in advance,” Eleanor tells her in a hush. It’s like a confession, like a treasure ship ripped open by sharp rocks spilling its cargo onto the sea bed. “That Anne took them when she captured you, and that she and Jack had buried them somewhere out in the wrecks. I was able to lay my hands on a few pearls, which Anne planted in the tent she shared with Rackham, to make the story more convincing.” 

“That’s how she lured them into the wrecks,” Max murmurs.  

“Where my men were lying in wait,” Eleanor confirms, unnecessarily. “They told me that Anne killed Hammund herself.”  

It isn’t until Max takes a deep breath in that she realises the tears in her eyes have begun to fall. She can hear them in her voice as she asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  

Eleanor isn’t a better state. “I wanted to,” she says, insistent. “That day, in no man’s land.”  

Max remembers the sun hot behind their backs, confronting Eleanor, rejecting an apology. She had been so angry then.  

“I wanted to tell you,” Eleanor finishes, her voice soft. 

“I wish you had,” Max says, because it’s the truth. She had a right to know. She had spent so long thinking that Eleanor had abandoned her, and for what?  

“Would it have changed anything?” Eleanor asks.  

“I —“ Yes? No? To deny it would be a lie. But to admit the truth would be too painful, so better instead to say: “I don’t know.”  

Eleanor’s smile is small, wavering. “I understand,” she says.  

_I don’t understand,_ Max wants to tell her. _I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand how I am feeling or what I want, and it’s all because of you._   

It’s at this point, casting around for something to distract herself that Max notices the portrait propped up against one of the walls. A man and a woman, both finely dressed. An odd trophy for a pirate to have taken. Back in the day, rumour had it that Flint was more commonly known to take books from prizes than anything else. The incongruity of the fine portrait kept amongst the supplies of the pirate resistance prompts Max to ask, “What is that?”  

Eleanor follows her gaze, and says, “You never met Miranda Hamilton, did you?”  

“Miranda Hamilton?”  

“The woman in the portrait — Flint’s companion,” Eleanor clarifies, though her tone on the word _companion_ is strange. “She went by the name _Barlow_.” 

Ah, now that is a name that Max is familiar with. “They used to say that she was a witch.”  

Eleanor nods. “I met her a few times,” she says. “The man beside her is Lord Thomas Hamilton, son of Alfred Hamilton, the lord proprietor of these Bahama Islands until a few years ago. My father used to do business with the Earl.” 

_“Thomas Hamilton?”_  

“He died years ago. We were told it was from grief, despair, after being committed to an asylum upon discovering his wife had begun a torrid affair with his closest friend, a young naval officer — Flint.”  

Thomas Hamilton. _T. H._ Not a woman after all, it would seem, but a man. A man who wrote an inscription calling Flint _my truest love,_ and told him to _know no shame_ — and oh, there is a part of Max that aches at that; the part of her that remembers the first time she had realised that her heart and her body were incapable of truly loving a man.  

To know that Flint once felt the same… it doesn’t change what he has done. It doesn’t change how Max feels about his war, and his effort to destroy the British empire; but she can understand why he might seek that now. Not simply for the nebulous concept of _freedom_ that Captains Vane and Teach had pursued, and not for personal glory as with Jack.  

Even when Nassau had been under the nominal control of Governor Robert Thompson, hangings for sodomy were uncommon, but Max knows enough of the world to know that was not the case elsewhere back then, just as it is now. 

Between two men, carnal love is a crime. In the past, Max had taken comfort in the fact that between two women, there is no specific law against their love. Flint would have had no such comfort. 

No wonder he feels there is no place for him within civilisation. 

“But the more I learn,” Eleanor continues, “the more I begin to doubt the story I was told all those years ago.”  

“What do you mean?” Max asks.  

“Did you never wonder how my husband came upon his plan to offer a universal pardon in order to win Nassau? Because Thomas Hamilton proposed it first, ten years ago, with Flint’s help.” 

Eleanor isn’t looking at her, she’s still looking at the portrait. Max can only hope that this means Eleanor won’t realise the effect her words are having. 

“They wrote the first proposal, and fought for months to get Whitehall to accept it.” Eleanor is frowning now. “When he took Abigail Ashe to Charlestown to exchange for a meeting with her father, it was in order to achieve those pardons. Even his quest for the Urca was intended to be in service of making Nassau strong enough to bargain with England for pardons.” 

It’s a unique feeling, to achieve perfect clarity. The moment at which one is able to fully understand a situation. Max has never felt anything else like it. 

Thomas Hamilton being committed to an asylum because he was mad with grief over his wife running off with Flint? Clearly a lie, likely propagated by his father, who must have been a man with loose morals given that he was _in business with Richard Guthrie_ , which must have been code for _being bribed by_ _Richard Guthrie_. The Earl must have been eager to avoid the embarrassment of his son advocating to pardon pirates during a war with Spain, and to prevent the loss of the source of income that Richard Guthrie’s pirate empire represented. He probably found out that Thomas and Flint were lovers, and used that knowledge to persuade the Navy to dismiss Flint. They probably threatened him with execution if he remained in England. Once Flint had left with Miranda Hamilton, it would have been easy for the Earl to justify Thomas’ imprisonment by claiming that they had run off together. 

“And then there’s that portrait,” Eleanor says with a sigh. “I don’t know why he was committed to the plan he helped Thomas Hamilton to write all those years ago, and I don’t know why he turned down a pardon when it was offered by the governor. I don’t know what any of this means.”  

Max gasps, she gasps into the space between them.  

“I do,” she says.  

Because if the reason for Thomas’ imprisonment was a lie, then who is to say that his death was not also? What could have been a more perfect end to the tale for his father than to have Thomas take his own life, proving that he had been misguided, foolish, and mad? For a man in the grip of madness to take his own life is believable, but Thomas Hamilton was not mad — of that much, Max is certain. As the Lord Proprietor to the Carolina colony, he would easily have had not only the resources to have Thomas sent away, but a convenient location for him to be sent to.  

And who else had seemed particularly interested in that location recently? 

_“Mon Dieu,"_ Max whispers. 

It’s a perfect plan. The fact that it’s awful doesn’t negate the elegance of its construction. Had Silver felt the same bittersweet wonder when he had conceived it?  

_Impressive,_ Max thinks, because it is; impressive like a hurricane, like a forest fire. 

  


\-----

  


There are times when Eleanor can read the calculations on Max’s face, the consideration of every eventuality and determination of probabilities, but this is not one of those times. Right now, all Eleanor can see in Max’s features is desperation, and she cannot tell what Max is thinking.   

“Come with me,” Max says quickly. Eleanor doesn’t have a moment to protest before Max has seized her hand and began to drag her out of the room, back to the table, to where Madi is sat, reading the same red book she had been occupying herself with earlier. 

Max grabs the book, ignoring Madi’s protestations, and shoves it into Eleanor’s hands, saying urgently, “look at the inscription!”  

_James… know no shame…_ and below that, initials written in neat cursive — 

_T.H._  

“Oh God.” 

_T. H._ is Thomas Hamilton. _James_ is Flint. 

“I don’t believe there ever was an affair,” Max says quietly. “At least, not with Mrs Hamilton.” 

“She told me once that I only perceived the effects of Flint’s demons,” Eleanor can still remember her voice as she had said that, and the look in her eyes that Eleanor only now recognises as grief. 

She must have known that Flint was still holding on to the memory of Thomas Hamilton. How much must it ache to know that the man you love has given his heart to a dead man? 

“All this _time_ …”  

“What concern is it of yours?” Madi interrupts. 

_He was my concern long before you knew him,_ Eleanor wants to say. It’s an effort to keep the words behind her teeth. 

“Shortly after your invasion failed,” Max says into the silence between them, “John Silver summoned me to a secret meeting in the dead of night. I assume he told you of my response?”  

Madi only nods. 

“My intention,” Max continues, “was to send him to a place far from here, somewhere he could not return from. An estate near Savannah, owned by a reform-minded man who uses convicts as labourers. This man, I was told, offered his services to wealthy families, including some of the most prominent in London, with a need to make troublesome family members disappear.” 

There’s a long pause. Madi has frozen, Max is staring at them both, and there are exactly two thoughts in Eleanor’s head:  

One: How difficult must it be for a man, even one like Alfred Hamilton, to murder his own son? Much easier to just allow the world to assume he had perished, and pack him off quietly to some estate in a distant colony. 

Two: Max would not have brought up the subject unless she was certain.  

Madi is the one to break the silence. “You think that Thomas Hamilton is there.” It isn’t a question.  

“I do,” Max says quietly. _Too_ quietly.  

There’s something more to this.  

Max takes a deep breath, and turns to Eleanor. “Before I was returned to the fort, Silver came to talk to me,” she says. “He asked me why I attempted to apprehend him, and what I had planned to do with him once I had. Where I planned to send him.”  

“Why?” Eleanor asks.  

“At the time, I had no idea. But I told him everything I just told you. And his response was to ask me _which_ families in London made use of that estate.”  

Max turns now to Madi, who is standing very still, with her fists tightly clenched.  

_Oh,_ Eleanor thinks. _Oh, no._  

How long since Max was returned to the fort? Long enough for a man to have been sent to Savannah. Long enough that man to have returned. 

“He knows,” Max says, her voice soft. “I am certain of it.”  

Silver knows, and he clearly hasn’t told Flint or Madi. Not telling Flint, Eleanor could excuse; to have told him without proof, and risk giving him false hope, would have been cruel. Besides that, for the past couple of weeks Flint has been a prisoner in the fort.  

But why would he not tell Madi? What reason could he have to keep it a secret?  

“I know John Silver,” Max continues. “I know how he thinks. I do not believe he is willing to give his life for Flint’s war. I think he is looking for a way out. And I think that I have given him one.”  

_I’m sorry,_ Eleanor wants to say to Madi. _I really am. I know the pain you are feeling right now, because I feel it too. I wish that I could take yours away._  

She doesn’t say any of it. Instead, she watches Madi pull herself together before their eyes, tucking away that hurt and rage and concern that had been exposed by Max’s words, hiding it somewhere inside of herself.  

“Why would I ever trust you? Either of you?”  

Madi’s voice is deceptively calm, but her eyes reveal the truth.  

“You don’t need to trust us,” Eleanor says. “Not yet. Right now, nothing is certain. We can easily find out the truth.”  

“How do you plan to do that?”  

“Mr Silver can only come under suspicion if we can find proof that he knows for certain that Thomas Hamilton is alive, and plans to keep it a secret,” Eleanor explains. “Can you think of any men loyal to Mr Silver who he might have sent to investigate the estate?”  

“Tom Morgan,” Madi says. “He wasn’t seen on the island for almost two weeks, and he only returned yesterday.”  

Eleanor nods. That makes sense; Morgan always resented Flint. He had once been in discussions with Mr Gates to command the Walrus crew, before Flint turned up on the island, and took the captaincy from under his feet. 

Eleanor had been glad, at the time. The Walrus was a good ship, capable of taking far greater prizes than it was at the time, if it only had a competent captain. Flint had been all that, and more, with an ambition for something greater. She had seen that in him from the beginning, and she had seen the opposite in Tom Morgan. He is far from the kind of man willing to risk everything for a greater cause, and Eleanor doesn’t doubt that if he were offered the chance to get out of Flint’s war, he would take it — at least, once that war had gotten him what he wanted. Another point in Flint’s favour all those years ago was that he had been more than willing to follow the command of a woman, when the time had come for Eleanor to take control of the Guthrie business in Nassau, whereas she always doubted that Morgan would have been. She wouldn’t be surprised if Flint’s maroon allies being lead by a woman wasn’t a point against the war, in Morgan’s mind.  

“I don’t believe you,” Madi says, suddenly. “I don’t believe _this_.” 

Was this how Flint had felt, Eleanor wonders, when he tried to convince her that the Governor had been the one to bring the Spanish to Nassau? It’s exhausting. It’s heartbreaking. 

“Without proof,” she says, “I don’t expect you to. But we must be certain.” 

  


\-----

  


_How should you be? You should be like a rocky promontory against which the restless surf continually pounds. It stands fast while the churning sea is lulled to sleep at its feet._  

The book is interesting, at least. Madi had decided as much when she first began to read it; before the Spanish soldier arrived, before Max came to their rescue. Before everything changed. Now, Madi returns to the book in an attempt to avoid any further conversation with Eleanor or Max. 

Fortunately, neither of them seem eager for further discussion. Eleanor stands by the window, watching, waiting for Flint, freshly loaded pistol in hand. Madi has a feeling she won’t put it down until Flint returns. Max is sat across the table from Madi, having refused a pistol of her own. Instead she holds a sword on her lap, and can’t seem to take her eyes off it.  

In a perfect world, Madi would have no doubts. There would be no cause, no war; England would have never blighted the lives of so many and Madi would have grown up with her mother and father, never knowing what it was like to grow up hidden away from the world. But Madi is too old for fantasy, and as far as she knows, a fantasy is the only place in which one could find a perfect world.  

This world, _her_ world, is a brutal, unforgiving mess. 

The question is not whether she trusts John Silver or not, but what she is prepared to risk in order to demonstrate that trust. If she says nothing, and Eleanor and Max are proved wrong in their suspicions, John never need know that she doubted him. If she tells him, and Eleanor and Max are right about the kind of man he is, the kind of betrayal he is capable of... then she will lose everything. Her people will lose their best chance, possibly their _only_ chance, to see this war through. 

Madi closes her eyes. This would all be easier if she were able to lie to herself, just for a moment. But she can’t, and besides that, it wouldn’t help in the long run.  

_Their_ suspicions. As if calling them that will protect Madi from them. The guilt will remain with her.  

What would John do, if he were in her position? Would he give her the benefit of the doubt?  

It doesn’t really matter. The simplest version of the question is this: what is she willing to sacrifice? Her relationship with John Silver, or her people’s future? 

About this, if nothing else, Madi has no doubts, which is a good thing because if she did then she wouldn’t be half the leader her people need. 

_I hear you say, “How unlucky that this should happen to me.” But not at all. Perhaps say instead, “How lucky I am that I am not broken by what has happened, and am not afraid of what is about to happen.” For the same blow might have struck anyone, but not many who would have absorbed it without capitulation or complaint._  

She won’t say a word to John Silver. Not until she is certain. Not until she knows she won’t be putting her people at risk. Madi will have to plot against him while pretending that everything is still as it was between them. 

It isn’t true. It can’t be true. And yet their doubts, _her_ doubts, are ricocheting around in her mind like bullets, brutal and without mercy. 

A quick intake of breath from Eleanor jolts Madi from her contemplation.  

“They’re back,” Eleanor says, her voice sounding somehow younger.

  



End file.
